


Vintage

by ladyofrosefire



Series: Reserve [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Cunnilingus, D/s, Don’t copy to another site, F/M, Hair-pulling, Loyalty Kink, May/December Relationship, Throne Sex, except like...... may and december of the next century only she's doin gr10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 00:02:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19734334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofrosefire/pseuds/ladyofrosefire
Summary: Essek is ambitious. Leylas has seen it and done it all before, but he is still... charming.





	Vintage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sparxwrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/gifts).



> Thank you to sparxwrites for inspiring this and for beta-reading 😈

Leylas has Essek admitted to her audience chamber late one afternoon. For all that she kept him waiting for a good thirty minutes before allowing him to see her, he appears collected. His robes are immaculately arranged, his head held high. There is a fashion, at the moment, for shorter hair amongst the men in Rosohna. He has adopted it. It’s… charming, she supposes, although it does make him look young. He is young. Talented, newly admitted to Den Thelyss, recently named Shadowhand for his talent. And asking to see her. 

At her gesture, Essek approaches. His steps make no sound, and a moment later, Leylas realized his feet are not touching the ground at all. It seems… perhaps slightly wasteful, slightly ostentatious. At the foot of the steps leading to her throne, he comes to a smooth stop and bows at the waist. His eyes return to hers a moment later. Bold of him, she thinks, to look at her so directly. But it takes boldness to catch the attention of one of the high families. 

“My Queen.”

“Shadowhand Thelyss,” she tilts her head and then gestures for him to rise from his bow. “Why do you seek an audience with me?”

“I wished to know what I could do for you, My Queen. You… gave me this position.”

“I did.” She raises an eyebrow at him. “Do you wish to tell me you are unable to do it?”

“No, your majesty.” He shakes his head. “But I’ve been delegating. I have been… picking apart a few fools who thought that they could challenge you.”

“You want to do more?”

He shrugs, and Leylas raises a brow at him. Then she beckons. There is a small table, a pitcher, and two glasses on the landing halfway up to her throne. She inclines her head toward it. He’s a clever man; he’ll understand. 

Essek approaches slowly, apparently still floating as she cannot see his knees bending under the robe he wears. He makes his way to the table. His hands emerge from the precise folds of his robe. Graceful hands, slim fingers, free of ink stains. With deliberate nonchalance, he lifts the pitcher and pours the dark wine into the two cups. Essek makes a familiar gesture, then, and a spectral hand curls around the stem of one glass. He floats it toward her. 

“My Queen?”

Leylas extends her hand, and the glass drifts into it. She drinks. The wine is rich and rolls smoothly across her tongue. It is a new bottling, even by this young man’s standards. New things have their place, from time to time. 

Essek takes up the other. “I would like to offer you more, My Queen.” He shifts and lifts his chin, shows her the long line of his throat, the tilt of his mouth, the fine angle of his jaw. 

She raises a brow. “Such loyalty.”

“I wish only to serve.” He manages to keep the double entendre down to a lowering of his lashes and a particular way he holds his head that draws her eye to the way the wine has stained his lips. “In whatever way My Queen requires.”

He glides up to the edge of the steps. Only when she nods does he continue upward, setting his glass back on the table on his way. When Essek reaches her dais, Leylas raises her index finger. He stops immediately, soundlessly. His robe swirls around his feet. A moment later, she catches the soft sound of his boots touching stone. Better, she thinks, but not good enough. 

Leylas twitches a finger. “Kneel.”

The tone of violet in his skin deepens across his cheeks and over the tips of his ears. She considers it, and him, with a faint smile. It has been a long time since she has had someone fresh enough to blush. It is, she thinks, good enough confirmation of where he believes their meeting will go. 

He’s a lovely thing, really. Leylas had thought he might be subtler, but she appreciates his boldness and the specificity of his offer. It’s hardly the first time someone has tried this. Most of them were with less grace. A few have presumed to conquer, to offer to take away the burden of her throne, as though a stiff cock has that power. He is not… unsalvageable. 

Leylas sets her glass down on the arm of her throne. "Do you think that offering yourself will make me feel indebted to you?"

He blinks up at her. "No, your majesty."

"Did you think I would be struck by your skill?"

"...No, your majesty."

She lifts her glass and takes a slow, measured sip. "Then what did you expect would happen when you made your overture?"

He looks down at the floor, the flush on his cheeks darkening. "...I don't know."

Leylas lets him stew for a moment. He’s young. Not indecently so, but not yet two-hundred. He has not had time for the realities of their world to chip away at him. It isn’t quite endearing, but it is refreshing. And he is not unskilled in dealing with people. 

“Do you _want_ to offer yourself to me, or do you feel you must?” When he does not immediately answer, Leylas sighs. “You may speak without fear of reprisals. I’m aware already that you are ambitious, and whether you desire me or not will do nothing for my ego.”

His jaw works. “I… could have picked another method, My Queen.”

“Do you wish to go? I will not reward you for this.”

Essek’s head comes up slowly, his eyes narrowed, cheeks still flushed. “No, My Queen. What would you have of me?”

His gaze is wary and hungry and warms her. It has been… a while. And she wants this sweet thing to stay on his knees for a little while. 

“If you’re sure…” Leylas takes another sip from her glass of wine. “Take off your clothes.”

He hesitates for only a moment before reaching up and unpinning his mantle. Essek sets it aside. Beneath it, he is slim built and straight-shouldered, lithe and elegant. 

“I have no intention of taking you as my lover. You may see to your own pleasure after you leave.” When he pauses, she gives him a slow, sharp smile. “I said I would not reward you for your service.”

His inhale is audible. “Yes, My Queen.”

Equally visible is the way his breath shudders in his chest. He unbuttons the cuffs of his sleeves and his high collar. The shirt comes over his head. There are no scars—he is not sculpted, just lean. His fine hands fall to his belt. She shakes her head, and he stops.

“Come here.” Leylas commands, voice low. She slides to the front of the throne. It’s all the help that she plans to give him. “Go on,” she murmurs, “princeling.” 

He bristles at that, shoulders stiffening, jaw going tight. Essek knee-walks to her. Her skirts bunch in his hands as he pushes them upwards, up around her hips. She hooks her fingers under the waist of her smallclothes. Then, deliberately, she tugs them down to her ankles. He bends, and she allows him to set them aside. When he reaches for her, Leylas puts one knee between his chest and her body. 

“You will not use your hands.”

At that, his lovely mouth quirks. “Of course, My Queen.” 

Essek clasps his hands behind his back. Then he leans in. His lips brush against the inside of her knee. She lets her legs fall open, and his mouth wanders up her thigh. When he lingers, when she feels the barest pressure of his teeth, she _tsk_ s quietly. He eases back. 

“Good,” she sighs, and then “ _yes_ ” as his mouth brushes over her center. 

He presses in with his tongue, parting her folds and teasing into where wet has begun to gather. Leylas pulls her skirts aside to watch the bob of his head between her thighs. It’s clearly not the first time he’s done this, nor the second. She is perfectly happy to benefit from his practice. 

She has had many bodies over the centuries, each with their own preferences, their own needs. Essek sets about discovering the particular wants of this one. He sucks at her, licks as though coaxing her into opening up to him. His fingers flex behind his back before he laces them together again. He presses closer. His nose bumps against her clit. Leylas lowers one hand to run her fingers through his hair, and he moans. The vibration of it rumbles into her. She lets herself gasp. Then she takes a grip on his hair and pulls his head back. Already, wet smears his mouth and chin and his lips appear kiss-swollen. 

“My—”

“Shhh…” She slips the fingers of her other hand into his mouth, pressing his tongue down. “I like how this looks on you. Kneeling at my feet suits you.”

He swallows around her fingers, flushing, but does not try to respond. 

“ _Good_ ,” Leylas almost croons. She pulls her hand from his mouth. “Continue.” 

Essek leans into her again. His tongue drags all the way up to her clit before circling it. He makes another sound as she pets at his hair. 

“Like wings, princeling. Up and down, to either side.” 

He obeys, pausing occasionally to suck gently at the folds of her, or to run his tongue around her clit. She lets him continue for a little while. Then she presses his head down until he pushes his tongue into her. He learns quickly that she wants short strokes, just barely inside her, and does his best to keep it up. Soon enough, though, he pushes against her hand. When she pulls him away, he pants for air, mouth hanging open. She gives him a moment before guiding him back to her. She lets him wander. Essek licks into her with soft, eager sounds, panting as he tries to fuck her with his tongue. He teases at her folds and then wanders up to her clit. He touches lightly, at first, circling and glancing over it. Warmth builds, sparks curling up her spine. 

“More of that,” she orders, and he obeys. 

He catches her clit between his lips and sucks gently, and then with more conviction when she sighs. She watches him, still. So she sees it when his hips jerk against nothing. And although it’s almost painful to do it, Leylas pulls him back, this time dragging at his hair until he’s arched, chest heaving, staring up at her wide-eyed. He’s hard in his well-tailored trousers, hard and straining. For a moment, she considers letting him take his cock out and stroke it, or telling him to. She could order him to tuck it away again before he came. But, no. She simply lets her gaze rake over him so that he feels it, flushes and shifts in her grasp, and then leads him back between her thighs. 

Her breath comes faster now but still smoothly. Leylas closes her eyes. Her free hand curls tight on the arm of her throne. When she tugs at his hair, Essek moans right up against the heat of her. She does nothing to suppress her laugh. Again, she guides his head, bringing his mouth to her clit. 

“Suck,” she orders, and he does. 

Leylas pets at his hair, and then tugs when she decides she wants something else. He changes to licks, back and forth, over and over. 

His hands never shift from behind his back. 

Essek’s breath comes as hard as hers does, the puffs and gasps of it tickling her, teasing her. His hips twist, pushing against nothing. His mouth remains right where she’s placed it. 

Her thighs begin to tremble. The heat is a dragging coil, now, heavy as the tide. She tips her head back and holds off. She can _feel_ it when he catches what she’s doing, hear it in his huff, and the sound of effort he makes as he redoubles the work of his tongue. Leylas gasps. She grinds against his face, fingers vise-tight in his hair. He does not protest.

She comes that way, using his mouth, thighs clamping around his head as though he would dare to move away. Leylas gives no sound but a low, satisfied moan as she finishes. Then she releases his hair and lets her legs fall open. 

Essek slumps against her thigh, a rough groan breaking from his chest. She has made a mess of his hair tugging at him. When she tips his face up with a finger beneath his chin, she sees it is similarly debauched, lips turned plum-purple and wet smeared over his cheeks and chin. His chest labors with his breath. 

Then something catches her eye. 

She takes a firmer grip on his jaw and leans him back further. Essek flushes under the rake of her gaze and tries to avert his. 

He’s come in those fitted pants of his. 

Leylas smiles. “Well done, princeling,” she murmurs. Her thumb sweeps toward his mouth, pushing the mess on his cheek into it. He sucks obediently. “You served me well.” 

He waits until she draws her fingers away to reply. “Service is its own reward, My Queen.”

“So I can see.” She tilts her head towards her discarded undergarments. “Return those.”

He hooks them around her ankles and guides them up until Leylas has to lift her hips. She settles them back into place. Then she reaches out and catches his face between both hands. Essek stares up at her. 

She bends and presses her lips to his forehead as though bestowing a blessing. Then she sits back and takes up her glass of wine. “Dress. You may clean yourself, if you wish. Then return to Den Thelyss.” 

A flick of his hand and the mess marking him is gone. He leaves his hair a rumpled mess, however. There is showmanship in how he dresses, in the way he whisks his robe back around himself and obscures his form once more. Once dressed, he backs down the stairs, on foot, past the wine glass at the lower dais and back to the marble floor of her throne room. There, he bows deeply, eyes fixed on the floor. 

“Thank you, My Queen,” he murmurs, “I will treasure this memory. And this lesson.”

There is no reason to remind him to stay silent about what they have done. Even if he were to be so foolish as to brag, it would earn him nothing but pain. Leylas watches as he turns and walks from her throne room, smiling to herself at the slight hitch in his stride. Then she lifts her wineglass to her lips and drinks. It has the promise, she thinks, of a good vintage. Perhaps it is worth having again, perhaps not. Time will tell. 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I'm on Tumblr at Ask-Ladyofrosefire. 
> 
> The author thrives on comments 🖤💜🖤


End file.
